Circumstances
by Twilight Fang
Summary: An unknown evil source has targeted Holmes and Watson but gives no indication as to their motives. But, as this person becomes more desperate, the damage and pain that they cause nearly tears Holmes and Watson apart. Finally SLASH in this! Wason/Holmes
1. Chapter 1

**I know that it's been ages since I posted anything on this site but I lost my password to this account (and everything else) when my old computer died last year. **

**Anyway, this is my first Sherlock Holmes fanfic that starts out slowly and then will jump into the slash, angst, and what-not in later chapters. If slash is not your thing, please do not read further.**

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_Meet me at the wharf._

_Come alone._

_Urgent._

_~ Holmes_

Watson clenched the badly scrawled note in his left hand, crumpling it as he shoved it into the deep pocket of his dark grey overcoat. Urgent indeed! It was more likely that this was another ploy to draw his attention away from Mary. Ever since that fateful dinner, where Watson had made the dreadful mistake of introducing Holmes to Mary, his best friend (and on-again, off-again partner) had been trying to throw a wrench in his wedding plans.

Pausing to gaze up at the sky overhead, and noting how cloudy and bleak the afternoon sky was, Watson debated over his options. He could act like the chivalrous gentleman that he was and arrive a few polite minutes early for his engagement with Mary. Or, he could chase after Holmes to see what kind of trouble the idiot had gotten into this time.

Surely, it would start to rain by the time he reached the wharf. Watson disliked the rain… but Holmes had a tendency to catch a cold whenever exposed to the chilly air and damp atmosphere.

A little bit of inner nudging had Watson taking a step in the direction of the wharf. The least he could do was show up to talk his friend out of whatever senseless scheme he had his mind set on this time, preferably before the rain came down. And come down it would, if the thick purplish dark clouds were any indication. In buckets no less.

Sighing inwardly, Watson's stride became more measured and purposeful as he headed off towards the wharf. He was going to have to give Holmes a very stern lecture about how his crazy antics were becoming boorish and were no longer appropriate considering his current status – as a doctor, nothing more.

By the time Watson reached the wharf, the clouds had begun to gather like an unsightly dark bulbous disease, and a bit of lightning could be seen in the distance. Aside from the faint glow of lanterns being carried by fisherman down by the warehouse, far to Watson's right, there was little to be seen in such poor lighting.

And there was no sign of Holmes.

Not wishing to waste any unnecessary time, Watson tapped the end of his elegant walking stick on the ground, resulting in a metallic twang. It was fairly heavy for a walking stick, probably due to the fact that it concealed a very sharp sword inside. Leaning forward onto the stick, Watson shouted, "Holmes! Where are you, old boy!?!"

Receiving no answer, Watson impatiently ground his walking stick into the wooden planks of the wharf. He narrowed his eyes at the angry waves of the sea that were beginning to creep closer to land.

"Holmes! I haven't got all day!"

Watson set his face into a scowl, hardening his features against Holmes' bemused expression for he'd been with the man too long to not expect such a reaction. And yet… there was still no sign of Holmes. Perhaps the noise of the waves crashing against the pillars, beneath the wharf, was making it too difficult to hear anything. Holmes might have wandered off in the direction of the warehouse, just to amuse himself.

"Blasted lunatic," Watson muttered, turning on his heel to stalk back the way he'd come. And then he heard it, a sound so faint that any regular man would have been unable to recognize it for what it was – the muffled cries of a man. And they were coming from beneath the wharf! "HOLMES!"

Dropping down onto his hands and knees, Watson peered over the edge of the wharf, searching desperately for some sign of… Holmes? He'd expected to find Holmes treading water around the pillars, having fallen into the drink due to his own careless stupidity. He was not prepared to find his friend bound and gagged, trussed up to one of the pillars like a helpless animal. Worse yet, Holmes was pretty far down, and the tide was rising. It was already crashing around Holmes' knees as it came in, leaving the detective's pant legs soaked as it drew away, only to return a moment later – a centimeter higher.

"HOLMES!" Watson shouted, his grayish-blue eyes revealing the horror that his face refused to express.

Holmes reacted to Watson's voice, struggling to look up but the thick ropes that suspended him to the pillar would not give an inch. They coiled around his waist, criss-crossed over his chest and shoulders, looped violently around his throat, and then angled down to his wrists that were secured behind the pillar. If he attempted to loosen his wrists, he'd succeed in choking himself. A separate length of rope wrapped numerous times around his legs and ankles. Watson could see a cloth-like white fabric knotted behind Holmes' head. No doubt the rest of it was serving as a gag to prevent Holmes from crying for help.

"HOLD STILL! I'M COMING DOWN!"

Watson frantically scoured the wharf for anything that he could use to lower himself down to Holmes. And even as he did so, he was more than a bit mildly alarmed when a few water drops struck him on the cheek, nose, and the back of one ear. At nearly the same moment, he looked down to check on Holmes, only to discover that the waves were now striking Holmes at thigh level.

_To be continued…_


	2. Chapter 2

**I'm really obsessed with Sherlock Holmes at the moment thanks to the new movie so updates on this fic will probably be frequent. Also, please check out my website if you'd like to see my pathetic attempts to draw Holmes and Watson together.**

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How the hell was Watson supposed to get to Holmes before the seawater rose to a dangerous level?

Watson cast his gaze over in the direction of the warehouse. If he ran, he could summon up some strong, beefy lackeys to assist him in rescuing Holmes. But… if the person or _persons_ who had left Holmes down there as fish bait were to return… No, he couldn't chance letting his friend out of his sight for even a moment.　　Besides, how was he to know that one or more of the men working around the area hadn't been involved in stringing Holmes up down there?

Wasting no time, Watson shrugged out of his overcoat, dropping it carelessly by his feet as he stooped down to haul up the length of rope that he'd removed from one of the nearby docks. He fastened one end securely to one of the docking pegs and the other he double knotted around his waist. As an afterthought, he jammed his walking stick in between his tightly latched belt and his trousers.

"HOLMES!" Watson climbed over the edge of the wharf and hung there for a second to rethink his strategy. It seemed so foolhardy to just leap down to his friend who was trapped in such a precariously dangerous position. Hearing Holmes' muted cries dampened Watson's second-guessing nature. He was Holmes' only hope and he would not let him down.

Watson carefully shimmied down the slickened pillar, forcing himself to remain calm and emotionless. If he slipped or went down too quickly, he'd end up accidentally injuring Holmes, or plummet into the jagged rocks below the rising and falling waves. But that was only if his knotting skills had wavered since the last time that he'd put them into practice. The last time had been, what? Five months ago?

_Dammit, Watson! Concentrate, old boy! _Watson mentally chided his overactive imagination and continued his descent. Now that he was underneath the wharf, the rainwater failed to bother him. Instead, the salty spray coming off of the sea occasionally splashed into his face. The noise deafened him to his surroundings, and the sea salt stung his eyes. Watson gripped the pillar harder, really digging his nails into it and straining the muscles in his forearms and neck. He was a hell of a lot stronger than your average English bloke, but in the end he was only human.

After what seemed like ages, Watson reached Holmes. One of his scuffed brown loafers tapped Holmes on the dark, scruffy head and he paused to take a few deep breaths before going down further. This was where he had to exercise the utmost caution and exert all the physical strength that he possessed. Pushing away from where he had been hugging the pillar, Watson began the acrobatic act of climbing down over Holmes, trying his best not to kick his friend in the face or mistakenly tug on the rope that was threatening to choke the detective.

Watson very slowly placed one leg on the pillar, beside Holmes' thigh, groaning in pain as his arms were forced to take all of his weight. He slid down a bit further, his fingers clawing for purchase on the splintery wooden pillar as he positioned his other leg slightly higher on Holmes' other side. Then, breathing a sigh of relief, he firmed up his leg muscles and pressed in close to Holmes. His reprieve lasted for only a few seconds before he yelped in discomfort when a particularly nasty wave slammed into him, waist-high. It was cold and frigid, and so was Holmes.

Raising his head off of Holmes' shoulder, Watson narrowed his eyes as he inspected his friend's face. There were bruises on Holmes' cheek and jaw, and the handkerchief that had been forced into the detective's mouth and yanked tightly behind his head had created unsightly red marks around that area. When Watson looked into Holmes' usually sharp brown eyes, he was startled to see the undisguised fear and pain there.

"Let's get this dreadful rag out of your mouth, shall we?" Clamping his legs more forcefully onto the pillar, Watson freed his right hand to reach down to his belt, pulling his walking stick free. He triggered the release on the sword and jammed the sheath by his right leg so that he could slide the sword out. When he flattened himself against Holmes once more, he was rewarded with a peculiar noise. The pressure was undoubtedly causing Holmes pain, he reasoned. Watson sliced through the handkerchief and removed it from Holmes' mouth, letting it drop into the rough sea below. "That's better."

"Watson!" Holmes rasped, choking as his dry throat refused to give voice to whatever he wished to say.

"Were you expecting somebody else?" Watson couldn't help the rather acidic way in which he spoke. He had been scared out of his wits that he might've been forced to watch Holmes drown while he was powerless to save him. "What in blazes were you doing down here? What kind of trouble have you gotten yourself into this time?"

Holmes was silent.

"Holmes?" Watson grumbled under his breath and lifted his head away from where he'd been nuzzling Holmes' throat to stare at his friend. The detective looked even paler than he had before, if such a thing were even possible. He needed to get Holmes out of this cold before he caught pneumonia.

"It's futile…," Holmes coughed.

"Futile my arse! First, I'll free your throat and arms. Asphyxiation is a horrible way to die." He sawed through the rope that was looped around Holmes' throat and then freed his friend's frozen and numb hands. "Put your arms around me," he commanded. The last thing he wanted was for Holmes to slip out of his makeshift embrace before he could regain the energy to attempt to hoist them both back up to the wharf.

Holmes just stared at Watson, apparently bewildered over his friend's timely appearance. He'd been minding his own business, locked away in his room, smoking God-knows-what, when the little delivery boy had shown him that letter. It had been brief and to the point, each stroke of the pen executed in Watson's precisely exaggerated, loopy handwriting.

_Dear Holmes, _

_I'm afraid that I've gotten myself into a bit of a bind and could use your assistance. Please meet me at the wharf at your earliest convenience. And don't dawdle._

_Watson._

Holmes sighed, closed his eyes and attempted to raise his head to observe the fast-approaching night. The pain in his sore neck muscles prevented him from moving too quickly or in any direction other than down. Judging by the dimmed lighting that barely allowed him to distinguish between Watson's mouth and mustache, Holmes assumed that he had to have been lying in wait of a miserably uncomfortable death for the better part of an hour. Not a very long time by most standards, but it had felt like days.

Swallowing a few times to moisten his raw throat, Holmes bitterly addressed Watson but refused to look at him. He'd spent too many long minutes pondering what-ifs and dwelling on the past not to feel bitter. "Pray tell, what kind of bind did you find yourself in, Watson? Not much of a life-threatening affair I'd imagine."

Watson paused in his clinical inspection of Holmes' wrists to glare into his friend's darkened face. "Pardon?"

"I came… as you requested," Holmes muttered hoarsely. "Only to find myself ambushed by two scientific sorts."

Now it was Watson's turn to look appropriately stunned and at a loss for words.

"While I admit that my general attitude towards Mary has been… less than gentlemanly, I had no idea that it warranted such violence and lack of humanity on your behalf."

"Y—you believe that _I _had you beaten, tied down here, and left for dead?" Watson sputtered, so furious that he nearly struck Holmes. But, he had dealt with Holmes' hallucinations before after the man experimented with little chemical cocktails in their rooms and hadn't hit him then. And he wouldn't hit him now. Really, sometimes it had been the result of Watson's own near-sightedness. He was more careful with his medicinal drugs when in Holmes' presence now. As far as he knew, Holmes hadn't been into his supplies for nearly a year. But what other explanation was there for his friend's blatantly offensive accusation?

"Didn't you?" Holmes challenged.

"Heavens, NO!" Watson wildly gestured with one hand, taking in their surroundings and the retreating light. "You idiot! We don't have the time for a fruitless argument. And I have no desire to learn what you've been smoking this time. We _must_ get down from here before the tide--." He was interrupted as a rather large wave washed over them, leaving them completely drenched from neck to toe. "You're bloody lucky that I got your note in time and decided to come here instead of meeting Mary. She'll be so upset when I return tonight. Now put your arms around me and shut up. I'm going to cut your legs free."

"My note?" Holmes blinked.

"Yes, your…" Something clicked inside Watson's head. Holmes' peculiar attitude and reaction to his appearance, and the accusations... Watson frowned. "You didn't send me a note, did you?"

Holmes, as tired and hurt as he was, didn't miss a beat, jumping to the same conclusion that Watson had. "And you didn't send me one either… did you?"

"It seems like we've been set up, old boy."

"But, Watson… if you were also sent a note…" Holmes' eyes widened as he heard gunfire from above them.

Watson nearly crushed Holmes as he pressed in as tight as he could to his friend. He was pressed cheek to cheek with Holmes and could now hear the detective's labored breathing by his ear. "They can't hit us down here," he said soothingly. "The angle is far too --." He was proven wrong when one of the bullets ricocheted and took a chunk out of the pillar above their heads. "Dear Lord…" Watson closed his eyes and wished that he were anywhere else with Holmes but on the verge of a messy death.

"Watson, the next time they fire, scream."

"Whatever for?"

"They expect me to be gagged. You are the only option."

"Pretend that I've been hit?"

"Yes. And then drop something into the water. Something heavy."

Watson smirked at Holmes, feeling some of his fighting spirit returning. "You fit the bill on that one."

"Haven't I suffered enough for one day?" Holmes teased good-naturedly.

"Honestly, you have." Watson grew angry again at the thought of Holmes dying.

Another gunshot sounded overhead. Smothering his pride, Watson let out a pitiful scream, projecting his voice upwards. He then dropped his pocket watch into the churning waves below. Nothing. No sound. Not even a small splash.

"Try something heavier!" Holmes urged.

Next, Watson dropped the metal sheath for his sword that made a satisfying plunking sound. Not as heavy as a human body but good enough for effect. Hopefully the men above were easily fooled.

They waited – silently – for a good fifteen minutes before coming to the conclusion that the men had indeed been idiots.

"Well done, Watson."

"Thank you, Holmes." Watson grinned.

"Now, how do you intend to rescue us?"

Watson was almost drawn into Holmes' playful bantering but knew the man too well to fall for it. Holmes was trying to cover up his injuries by making light of the situation. He fully intended to get Holmes back home and tend to him properly, no matter what he had to do. And afterwards, heads would roll for how his dearest friend had been treated.

_To be continued…_


	3. Chapter 3

**Thanks so much for the reviews! I really appreciate every single one since they encourage me to write more (and faster). **

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**Part 3**

Trying his damnedest not to meet Holmes' expectant gaze, Watson straightened up after his clumsy acrobatics act of cutting the detective's legs free. Now, the only thing that was preventing them from dropping into the deadly water below was Watson's brute strength. And, truth be told, he hadn't much of it left.

Holmes clung onto Watson's shoulders, his grip wavering from side to side as he clenched and unclenched his fists, flexing his fingers as he'd been told to do in order to restore the blood flow. Due to his impeded circulation, he lacked the physical power required to climb up on his own. Aside from the purplish swollen rings that marred the flesh around his wrists, his legs were utterly useless. He'd been unable to move them for a lengthy amount of time and Watson had seemed to procrastinate on cutting them free. At least, that's what Holmes' frustration and sense of helplessness dictated to him.

After another moment's hesitation, Holmes peered into Watson's darkened face, uncovering the truth instantly. Watson was practically seething inside, too furious with self-loathing to pay Holmes any attention.

"You can't make it back up, can you?"

Watson met the accusation head-on, tilting his head a bit so that the pale lighting of the moon caught the severity of his features. Perhaps if he'd gotten to Holmes a few minutes sooner, he might've been able to cut him loose and haul the detective back up to the wharf before they'd been fired upon. While he might be able to make it back up on his own, towing Holmes with him was now impossible.

Watson regarded the rope around his waist. In the eventuality that his arms were to fall dead at his sides, the rope would continue to hold him in place until some passerby noticed and rescued him. But what kind of ill satisfaction or relief was to be had from a man who had allowed his friend's body to drop into a vile sea, becoming impaled on a bed of thorny rocks?

"No, I cannot," Watson answered simply.

"My dear Watson," Holmes sighed in exasperation. "If one cannot go up, then one must choose to go down."

"Are you mad!?!" Watson had to shake his head a moment to clear the morbid image of watching Holmes torn to pieces on the rocks below from his mind.

"I am not referring to forfeiting our lives. I was merely suggesting that if you were able to get us to a safer level, we might be able to wade to shore. Those unnaturally sharp formations pose a deadly threat to us from below, but placing ourselves on an evener level might increase our odds of survival. However, if you consider your stored energy insufficient to make it down with our combined weights, might I suggest that you --."

Holmes was never given the chance to complete that thought for Watson vehemently spat out, "Either we go down together or we don't go down at all!" Having spoken his peace, he proceeded to cut the rope from around his waist and then secured his sword to his waist belt. Why hadn't he considered going downwards? Sometimes, Watson felt like such an imbecile in the detective's presence. "Hold on!"

As Watson began the treacherous descent downwards, Holmes closed his eyes and prayed that he'd successfully given his friend enough indirect encouragement to make it safely to the bottom. He was a tad bit disappointed with himself for having resorted to reverse psychology in order to stoke Watson's sense of indignant pride. But at least it had worked. One thing that they had in common with each other was that failure was never an option.

The frigid sensation of having his shoes suddenly fill with water brought Holmes back to his senses, his eyes snapping open to regard their current position.

"We're down." Watson breathed a sigh of relief as he steadied his footing on the uneven rocks and then lowered Holmes to his feet. Only, Holmes' legs weren't quite ready to obey him as of yet and gave out on him the second that Watson let go. Thankfully, Watson hadn't moved far off and steadied the detective before he could fall backwards. "Slowly, move towards the shore. It's not far off and it's relatively shallow here. But I warn you to not let go of my arm for you will surely be swept out to sea when the tide comes in again."

"I shall endeavor to do so for I do not wish to spend all eternity floating about this polluted watery grave."

They cautiously made their way out from under the wharf, immediately becoming drenched by the ugly raincloud that had burst open from the sky above. It poured down in buckets, pelting the two men on the head and blinding them to their goal. And when the tide came in again, it did so with such a swift force that Watson missed a step and Holmes was thrown forward. Still, Watson held on, dragging Holmes onto the shore where they collapsed – with Watson nearly toppling onto Holmes - heaving in exhaustion and shivering from the chill in their bones.

And that's when Watson's frayed nerves finally snapped and Holmes reverted to his naturally insufferable unemotional self.

"Have you nothing to say?" Watson demanded of the slender man that lay sprawled beneath him, shivering but otherwise not giving any other physical indication that anything was amiss. Holmes' features were once more an impassive shield that revealed nothing. Watching the pale detective calmly brush clumps of thick, soggy, dark hair out of his light brown eyes, Watson just about lost his senses. "I just _saved_ your life!"

"And I thank you for that, dear friend. Why, wherever would I be without my Boswell?" Although Holmes' lips softened somewhat into what passed for a smile, he could not fool his longtime friend and companion with the false niceties.

Without thinking, acting on pure instinct alone, Watson seized Holmes by his upper arms and pinned him to the muddy ground. He cared not for the rain that assailed his back and shoulders, transforming his formerly pristine white shirt into a chilly second skin. "Pray tell, what is it that has gotten you in such a snit? Please do me the common decency to address any grievances you may have directly to my face. Is it the fact that you were caught unawares and overpowered, impotent in your helplessness to master the situation on your own? Or do you resent the fact that it was I – your faithful loyal _dog_ – that came through where you had failed?" Watson leaned into Holmes, temporarily mindless of the other man's injuries now that the full impact of what had just transpired was upon him. "You could have died, do you even realize that? The great, immortal Holmes, drowned to death while tied up out on the wharf, killed by a common gangster!" Watson practically shouted into Holmes' reddening face.

"Astounding, absolutely astounding!" Holmes mock-congratulated Watson. "And where have you drawn that conclusion from? We cannot afford to make assumptions based on the crude methods of my capture."

"I care not for your complex reasoning at this time! If I wish to believe that it was a gangster, then a gangster it was!"

"Are you quite through?" Holmes attempted to push upwards to dislodge Watson's more formidable weight but could not make the sandy-haired brunette budge an inch. "Watson, I do say, you're acting very ungentlemanly." He hadn't intended on displaying any of the disconcerting emotions that were boiling just beneath the surface of his façade of indifference. However, there was something unsettling, and yet mysteriously fascinating, about the very uncharacteristic way in which Watson was seeking to antagonize his mentor.

No, Holmes would not allow this nonsense to continue. How brazen and foolish Watson was if he assumed that he could unravel the great Sherlock Holmes. Holmes was under no obligation to explain himself or his actions, or lack thereof, to Watson of all people.

"Enough is enough. Let me up, Watson."

"Why should I?" Watson realized, much to his own surprise, that he rather enjoyed this dominant position over Holmes. "Now that our roles have been reversed, perhaps you know how it feels to be on the other end. Not knowing what is to happen next. Always being left in the dark. You must think me to be quite the buffoon judging by the way that you treat me."

"I have done nothing of the sort." Holmes felt his cheeks heat up with color as he struggled in earnest against the undignified way in which Watson had him restrained. "Your anger is merely a psychological reaction to the heightened stress that you are under. Whatever prejudiced treatment you imagine I have directed at you is all in your head."

"Is it?"

"Admittedly, I am not entirely myself at the moment so you must forgive any abnormalities in speech or behavior that do not coincide with the norm. As for the past, I have always considered you to be my equal, a fair partner worthy of the responsibility cast upon you. If I have led you to believe otherwise, then I do apologize. But why on earth are you bringing all of this up now?" Holmes gave up his fruitless struggling and lay there panting from the exertion.

Watson's steeled blue eyes were practically blazing but his tone had calmed enough so that he did not continue to shout at Holmes. "Like you said, it's merely a psychological reaction," he repeated. "And how am I expected to feel after rescuing you only to receive some pathetic smirk in the place of gratitude?"

Holmes was silent for a moment as he recollected his thoughts and feelings and bottled them up where they would no longer be a hindrance to him. His hold over them was tenuous at best, what with Watson heaving above him like a beast gone mad. "I do apologize," he said sincerely but averted his gaze. "Of course I am grateful to you, as I always am."

That honest confession unraveled Watson, causing him to draw away from Holmes, shocked at the way he had abused his best friend. "You confuse me, Holmes," he muttered, followed by a low curse as he helped the detective to his feet.

"There is no one more confused than I," came Holmes' cryptic response. Watson couldn't possibly fathom what Holmes was referring to and knew that the detective could not be forced to elaborate so he let the matter drop.

"Come, you're shaking and numb with cold. We'd best get you back home and warmed up." Although his actions might be construed as an overstep in the boundaries that had been mutually placed on their friendship, Watson wrapped an arm around Holmes' shoulders and led him along the rear of the deserted warehouses, insisting that the injured man set the pace. Holmes gave no sign of resistance, allowing Watson to guide him away from what he considered to be a crime scene.

**

It was drawing close to ten-thirty in the evening when Watson and Holmes stumbled onto Baker Street. None of the carriage drivers had seemed willing to grant two soaking wet men the privilege of riding with them so they had been forced to walk back. They'd gotten halfway home on the back of one carriage before the driver halted it and came round back to check out the extra weight that it had picked up.

The street lamps on either side of the road were burning warmly, casting London's dreary rainy night in a yellowish glow of highlights. The effect served to urge the two men onwards, reminding them that they would soon be home where a hot meal and warm bath awaited them.

"Are you alright, Holmes?" Watson inquired politely, their earlier scuffle already having been replaced with an amiable silence.

"As good as can be expected."

"Thankfully those hooligans believe us to be dead, otherwise our journey home might have been a more eventful one." By eventful, Watson meant perilous but chose not to utter the word.

"I have no desire to argue with you again, however, I regret to inform you that you are mistaken."

"Oh? And why is that?"

"Aside from the fact that our escape was far easier than I would have expected…," Holmes inclined his head in the direction of a blind alley up ahead, "… the man that has been trailing behind us for the past fifteen minutes does tend to overstate the obvious."

Watson sighed, supposing he should be grateful for the detective's catlike sense of hearing. "I shall dispose of him before he goes any further." Withdrawing his sword from his belt, Watson released Holmes and advanced on the darkened alley. Before he could reach it, their shadow bolted onto the main street, in front of Watson, and drew his gun.

But Watson was quicker. He attacked first, knowing that he had to disable the man's weapon first and foremost. Slashing outwards with all his might, Watson succeeded in disarming the man who howled in pain as his forearm was sliced into. Then, Watson took up an aggressive stance directly in front of Holmes, preparing to defend him should the man in the long drab raincoat and matching cap attack.

"Who are you? What is your game?" Holmes demanded to know, his interrogative questions hardly intimidating in his current state.

The man's features were near imperceptible in the shadows where the lamplights could not reach him, with his cap pulled down below his forehead. "You'll know soon enough… after you've been defeated, Sherlock Holmes." His voice was wispy, grainy, oddly mismatched for a man of such an imposing stature. He was tall, taller than Watson, but not very well built. As the man turned to flee, Watson prepared to strike again.

"Watson, let him be."

Watson cast Holmes an incredulous look over his shoulder. "Why shouldn't I follow?"

"Because, he is but a messenger. And the messenger shall lead us to his master… eventually."

Very displeased with the way things were going and not having a clue about what any of this meant annoyed Watson to no end. He sent the scoundrel off with a look of hatred, watching as the man vanished into the drizzling night before returning his full attention to Holmes. "Your pallor is startling, my friend. There will be no investigation until you've been seen to."

Knowing that it was useless to argue when he felt about ready to pass out, Holmes simply nodded his acquiescence.

_To be continued…_


	4. Chapter 4

**In this chapter the slash will escalate and so the M rating is going to apply sooner or later.**

_Thanks to everyone who posted a review. I really appreciate reviews! They encourage me to write more because I know that people are actually interested in reading what will happen next._

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******

**Part 4**

After Holmes and Watson had both taken their turns in the bathroom, bathing and making themselves presentable once more, they made themselves comfortable at the dining table to partake in the hot meal that had been prepared by Mrs. Hudson. The jovial middle-aged woman was always on good terms with Watson but battled endlessly with Holmes' over his poor organizational skills, eccentric hobbies and habits, and his inability to communicate properly with the fairer sex.

Tonight was a bit of an exception for both Mrs. Hudson and Holmes. He ate his hot stew quietly and without criticism, allowing the woman to uncharacteristically fuss over him. Just moments ago, Watson had been the one tending to Holmes, bandaging up his wrists and applying a salve to the red-raw marks that marred his otherwise pale throat. The detective must have been deep in thought to allow these violations of his personal space and code of conduct to go unmentioned.

Watson sat across from Holmes, observing him in silence as he finished his rather generous portion of the meal. He could not deny that he was very worried about Holmes' safety and wellbeing. It was not uncommon for him to find himself gazing forlornly at his distracted friend in times like these. When he was so preoccupied with the fearful thought of what he would do without his best friend that he could barely contain himself. Often, he would need to wrestle with the urge to just touch the detective to reassure himself that Holmes was indeed alive and breathing. That urge was stronger than ever today. He couldn't remember a time when he'd felt this overprotective over anybody, except when maybe one of his old flings had attracted some unwanted attention and had then required defending from a local gangster. But Holmes was no lady and would never rush into his arms, pleading for assistance and some warm comfort at night.

The instant that very peculiar scene tugged at the furthest reaches of Watson's imagination, he abruptly pushed back his chair and stood, warding it off as if it were some evil witch's spell. He shook his head to clear it and felt a pair of brown eyes on him.

"Watson, are you feeling okay yourself?"

"Perfectly fine, Holmes." Taking a deep breath, Watson met Holmes' innocently concerned gaze head-on and did his best to draw the attention away from himself. "Have you come to any conclusions on who tried to kill you or why?"

"There are many men that would wish me bodily harm, but most of them are accounted for." Holmes did a mental check in his head, appearing distracted for a moment before nodding in approval. "Yes, I'm quite positive that whoever set those men on us is in no way attached to my past – recent or otherwise." Having lost interest in his meal, Holmes lowered his spoon to his dish and leaned back in his chair to think.

"There, you've gone and done it again," Watson muttered, coming up behind Holmes to pick up the woolly blanket that had fallen to the floor. "It's very important that you keep warm." He wrapped the blanket around Holmes once more and then took hold of a slender wrist to check his friend's pulse. Although Holmes flinched in pain at the contact, he said nothing and made not a sound. "Faster than usual," Watson said after a moment of observation. "Are you certain that I have treated all of your injuries? Is there something that you haven't told me?"

"I am merely… fatigued," was Holmes' only reply.

But Watson watched Holmes' sensitive fingers twitch and knew that there was a lot more to it than that. The detective was a very tactile person, always skimming his fingers over one thing, tapping them on the next. He seemed to project his emotions through the very simple, but delicate, movement of his long, elegant fingers. Watson had been with Holmes long enough to be able to predict what emotions were being conveyed through those tiny, seemingly insignificant movements. Noting how those fingers now appeared to be tense, their secret sign language hastily aborted, Watson realized that Holmes was incredibly nervous. While a normal person might display nervousness by an increase in physical activity, more rapid movement, and telltale facial signs, Holmes relayed his nervousness by a total lack of expression. It was downright peculiar for some, but having been accepted long ago as fact by Watson himself.

"As your doctor and your friend, I implore you… please tell me what is on your mind."

"I'm afraid that I can't do that." Realizing that there was no sense in lying to Watson, for the man had grown too exasperatingly observant over the years, Holmes made no effort to deny that anything was wrong.

"I have never seen you as nervous as you are now."

"And how would you know when I am nervous?" Holmes queried, wondering if Watson was bluffing and only guessing as to the cause of his brooding. "I could be any one of a million things right now. Angry. Sad. Disappointed."

"If you had been any one of those things, your fingers would still be moving. And yet, they have stopped." To emphasize his point, Watson took Holmes' hand into his own and squeezed affectionately.

Holmes' reaction was immediate and nakedly exposed for Watson to read within seconds. He gasped in shock, glancing up at Watson with widened eyes before reflexively yanking his hand away. Then, retreating as far back against the opposite arm of the chair as he could, Holmes regarded Watson with the look of a frightened animal that had just been chased out of its den.

"Holmes," Watson began, startled to have just witnessed such a strange and adverse reaction from his normally unflappable friend. He might have allowed Holmes some time to recover and reason away the odd behavior. He would have if it had been anyone else. But this was his best friend – a friend who understood little about the proper methods of communication between two members of the same species. Oh, when it came to casework and making deductions based on facial gestures, tone of voice, or measuring the gait at which a man walked, Holmes was a certified professional. It was the more mundane intricacies of everyday life that rocked the detective's sturdy balance.

"There, you've gone and upset my train of thought," Holmes managed to say before the awkward silence stretched on for too long. He reached for his spoon again, desperate to have something to do – anything – to occupy his thoughts. When Watson's hand closed over his once more, Holmes nearly bolted out of his chair.

"Why are you acting this way around me?" Watson leaned over Holmes, getting between the seated detective and the table.

"W—Watson!" Holmes practically squirmed with discomfort in his chair as his friend hovered ever nearer. "You musn't… Mary would become most hostile if she--."

"Ah, so this is about my impending marriage again." Watson grinned like a shark, having forced Holmes onto the bait. "I think that I would be most obliged if you found the courage to voice your reservations about my fiancée."

"I have nothing against Mary." Holmes tugged at his hand, his cheeks becoming flushed with heat as his true emotional state soon became evident. "Stop this at once! You are aware that I am incapable of properly defending myself."

"Exactly! And so you will tell me the truth."

"I swear to you, on my honor, I wish no ill will towards her."

"Then what is it?" Watson leaned down even further, amused to watch Holmes fidget and redden with embarrassment and frustration.

"I wish that you would not marry her…. That is all," Holmes blurted out.

Watson jerked back a bit, shocked to have actually shaken an admission from Holmes. After registering what Holmes had actually said, the shock multiplied exponentially. Holmes had nothing against Mary; that much Watson sensed was true. So then why was he objecting to the marriage? Without being actively aware of his own actions, Watson raised his hand to Holmes' face, gently touching a crimson cheek. "I must marry her. She is a good woman. She will make a fine wife," he explained, although his convictions came out sounding hollow and rehearsed. His heart beat fiercely and his eyes narrowed as he struggled to withdraw his hand. He'd only wanted to touch Holmes – just once – for the sake of knowing what his skin felt like. And so he'd taken and never released Holmes' hand. That hadn't been enough. Hearing Holmes' disapproval of his intended marriage to Mary had unfortunately amplified Watson's own doubts. And then the desire to comfort Holmes had guided Watson's hand to the detective's face. Still, he craved more but his own denial seized the unnatural craving and held it at bay.

Holmes stiffened considerably, frozen in place by the unfamiliar liberties that Watson was taking with him. How could Watson so frivolously toy with his emotions? Whatever did he intend to do?

"She may object to my participating in your adventures for a while, but she may eventually come to terms with it. I may still accompany you on the occasional case… if you wouldn't mind that is," Watson suggested lightly.

"Mary may this… and you may that...! How generous of you to offer nothing but empty promises!" Holmes finally relinquished his ever-constant grasp over his self-control and attacked Watson in a loathing tone. He never would have done so had Mrs. Hudson not retired to her own place of residence for the night.

"You are not acting at all like yourself, my dear Holmes. Perhaps you have a fever after all." Watson frowned as the slip of the possessive _my_ got mixed up in his sentence.

Now even more furious with Watson than he'd ever let on, Holmes shoved the doctor backwards and into the table. "I may not have the experience that your exploits boast but I am not completely ignorant. I do know what it means when another man touches me in such a way." Not granting Watson the luxury of coming up with a defense to his accusations, Holmes went on, perversely delighting in the horrified expression that suddenly sharpened every feature on the man's face. "I'm a detective, remember? I pick up clues and then search for evidence in order to substantiate my suspicions. There have been many clues over the years but so little evidence that I thought it to be all a figment of my overtaxed imagination. Until today."

Watson was speechless.

"I'm assuming that my brush with death has put your recent life-altering choices into perspective. You speak of my nervousness but fail to address the most prominent emotion that you've exhibited today – fear. You were so afraid that I was going to die today that you have been carelessly gazing at me… touching me… in ways that speak volumes about what it is that you have been hiding."

"Don't you dare make it sound as if what I have done is something evil and despicable." Watson seized Holmes by the blanket that he'd wrapped around him and yanked him close. "Did I wish to deceive you? Yes. Did I intend to throw myself into a loveless marriage in order to avoid you? Yes! But, did I do any of it to hurt you? No!" His arms closed around Holmes' slender body in a smothering embrace before the detective could even begin to fight him off. "I did it to protect you, you bloody fool! How was I supposed to know that you would have welcomed my advances?" Knowing of only one way to prevent Holmes from hurling anymore insults his way, Watson drew Holmes against him and bent his neck to kiss his friend.

It was nothing like kissing Mary.

Holmes hadn't the faintest idea of what he should do. He neither did anything to encourage Watson, nor did he do anything to discourage him. He stood there woodenly, purely accepting the light brush of Watson's lips over his own. How many times had he fantasized about this in the past? Of feeling Watson's arms around him, holding him as he would Mary, although with infinitely more meaning. And now that it was actually becoming reality, Holmes felt too panicked to enjoy it.

Watson gave up on the kiss and pressed his lips to Holmes' throat instead. He was rewarded with a surprised whimper, which turned into a sharp gasp when he kissed his way up Holmes' neck, and then whispered into his ear. "Relax, you needn't do anything besides trust me."

Tracing Holmes' ear with the tip of one finger, he slid it slowly down the side of the trembling detective's face, moving along his jaw, and then to his lips. He firmly stroked Holmes' soft lips with his thumb, pressing down on the bottom lip until he'd coaxed some of the tension out of his friend.

Watson moved his mouth over Holmes' a second time, his thick mustache bristling against Holmes' face as he angled in to kiss him. Worrying that he might not get a second chance to prove himself to Holmes and dreading rejection, Watson decided to throw all he was worth into it. The kiss was anything but chaste. He wondered about how innocent Holmes was but couldn't be bothered with speculations and was determined not to give his friend any chance of escape. Watson pressed his lips roughly to Holmes', forcing them apart with bruising force, and then pushed his tongue eagerly inside. Holmes jolted in his arms but Watson held on tighter. He watched Holmes battling with some inner turmoil as they kissed, or Watson did most of the kissing and Holmes just reacted to it. Holmes tasted of the sweetened tea that Mrs. Hudson had brewed, mixed in with the hastily puffed cigar that he'd gotten his hands on after the bath. Watson found that he quite liked the way that Holmes tasted and wanted more of it so he deepened the kiss. When Holmes began to moan, his hands moving up to grip Watson by his shoulders, Watson became truly feral.

Reversing their positions so that Holmes now had his back pressed to the table, Watson grabbed one end of the tablecloth and hastily yanked it in one direction so that the dishes followed, clearing a path for him to push Holmes down onto. The old hardwood table groaned when Watson crawled on top of Holmes to resume their kiss but otherwise bore the extra weight. "Damn you," Watson cursed breathlessly, grasping the front of Holmes's clean white shirt, tugging it down to expose a pale throat to kiss and bite.

"Ahh! W—Watson…" Holmes gasped, pulling away one moment when the sensations became too intense, only to push back when he desired more.

"I was content to leave you untarnished with my impure thoughts. But… not now… you have ruined me, my dear Sherlock." Watson enunciated Holmes' given name carefully, as if savoring the feel of it on his tongue. He swept the palm of his hand up, underneath Holmes' shirt, as he growled by Holmes' ear, "I will have you." There was no mistaking what he meant by that. Holmes blushed but gave no indication that he wished to object to the obvious claim that Watson had made.

Watson moved to kiss Holmes again… when a sudden desperate pounding at the front door caused them both to freeze.

"Dammit!" Watson grit his teeth and stilled his hand. "Are you expecting someone?"

"No. Are you?" Holmes countered breathlessly.

The pounding didn't stop. In fact, it grew louder and angrier with each passing second that it was ignored.

"Stay here." Watson straightened up, adjusted his shirt and hastily picked his jacket off of the back of his chair on his way to the door. He didn't put it on, but rather held it at waist level to conceal the uncomfortable way that his pants had stretched around the seams.

"Watson?" Holmes climbed off of the table and hurriedly smoothed out the wrinkles in his shirt, running his fingers through his hair to tame it as best he could.

The door opened, followed by a quick exclamation of, "Mary, what in -- !?!" The heavy smacking sound that resounded up the stairs could have been nothing other than a willful slap to Watson's shocked face.

Holmes rushed down the stairs to find Watson holding the woman back by her wrists as she flailed about, trying to get in another blow. "You _bastard_!" She screeched, nearly succeeding in kicking him in the crotch when she realized that she couldn't get to his face again. "Where were you!?! I waited… for nearly two hours! Do you hear me? Two hours!"

When Holmes approached, Watson motioned for him to stay back. "I'm truly sorry, my dear. I was called away at the last possible second and couldn't get word to you. It was a matter of life and death."

"Whose?" She demanded bitterly. "Oh, let me guess, you were manipulated into helping out on another one of _his_ cases." She cast a scornful look in Holmes' direction.

"I was not manipulated and there was no case." Watson lowered his voice in an attempt to pacify her. "I couldn't very well allow any harm to befall my best friend, now could I?" Not too far from Watson's very conscious thoughts, he realized that he would never be satisfied with Holmes as nothing more than a best friend.

"And what about me!?! You might be pleased to hear that while I was waiting for you I was attacked!"

"Attacked!?! By whom? Are you okay? Let me look you over." Watson could hear the truth in Mary's voice and felt wholly responsible for whatever had happened to her in his absence.

"Don't bother!" Mary shook him off and stood a ways off with her arms folded over her heaving chest, shooting icy daggers of hatred Holmes' way. "Two men appeared from behind a building and caught me unawares. They took everything that I had. Robbed me of even the change that I had in my purse. They took _everything_, John." That 'everything' was made clear as she thrust her right hand forward to show the empty spot where her diamond engagement ring had been. She undoubtedly blamed Watson for her misfortune, having just come to inform him of it because she then turned on her heel to leave.

"Mary, wait! You can't possibly return home at this hour… not as distraught as you are now," Watson – always a chivalrous man – stepped forward to prevent her from leaving.

"Why? What more can anyone possibly steal from me? I've already reported it to the police, and now I've told you, so I have no reason to stay. Goodnight!" She thundered past Watson and exited the house, slamming the door behind herself.

"Holmes…" Watson cleared his throat and moved quickly to the detective to envelope him in a crushing hug. "Sherlock, listen to me. We are far from finished with this so do not think this is over. I am a man of honor and must see Mary home, regardless of what has happened or what I feel."

"Of course, I understand that." And for once, Holmes truly did.

"But I don't feel comfortable leaving you alone either. I want you to take my gun and wait up for me… just in case. I shouldn't be long."

"I will wait up for you, if I can, but I believe that the gun would be better off in your hands. After all, you are the one who is going out in the middle of the night, not me."

"I have my trusty old walking stick. You are going to take the gun and keep it at the ready should any peculiar circumstances require the use of it." Watson released Holmes and went to the back of the stairs where he kept a spare walking stick so that he wouldn't have to venture out into the night with an unsheathed sword protruding from his coat. "Oh, and there's one more thing." Watson beckoned Holmes up into his bedroom where he proceeded to loosen a part of his mattress that faced the wall. Inside was a small black box, cheap but durable for the weight that Watson must place on it every night. He popped it open and set aside the wad of cash, old rings and vouchers – all the spoils of recent gambling sprees. At the bottom was a rather large multi-colored stone, very smooth and shiny. Watson withdrew it and held it up for Holmes to see. "I want you to have this."

Holmes took the proffered stone by the thin rope that was fastened to one end of it. It was all angular, not a very fashionable size for a woman's pendant. Bold hues of red, orange, yellow, and green reflected the light in intricate shapes that were woven together in the palm-sized ornament. "How peculiar," Holmes mused.

"I won it at a game a few days ago and fastened the rope myself." Watson beamed with pride. "I was going to give it to you eventually but tonight seems like as good a night as any." He pulled Holmes in for a quick kiss and then was thundering down the stairs again. "Keep the doors locked and the gun handy. I shouldn't be more than a few hours… depending on how Mary's parents receive me," he added with a grimace.

And then, he was out the door.

Holmes watched him go and waited a few moments before fastening the rope around his neck and dropping the stone inside his shirt. He then returned to Watson's bedroom to get the revolver and load it.

_To be continued…_


	5. Chapter 5

I combined two parts to make one extra long chapter. It took me a long time to write and edit, especially after I made a major change in the middle at the last minute. I really hope that there aren't any continuity problems, but if there are, feel free to point them out.

**I really, really love and appreciate feedback so please review if you have a moment. It makes me write more and post faster!**

**(**Please don't repost this anywhere without asking first)

**Part 5**

After loading the revolver, Holmes sat on the edge of Watson's bed, doing nothing more than staring off into space. His brown eyes sleepily fixated on a tear in the old, faded wallpaper beside the door. The color reminded him of a muddy grass heap, just the wrong shade of green mixed in with some sickly yellow. And yet, no matter how hard he tried to concentrate on that one spot, to analyze how the tear had come to be, he found that his mind could not travel past what had happened at the dining table. Those few moments, regardless of how brief, continued to affect him on a very intense physical level. His heart still beat as if it were being mercilessly pursued by a mysterious force, and his breath came and went at an incredibly fast pace.

"Oh dear, I believe that I may be hyperventilating," Holmes muttered to himself, hopping off of Watson's bed and moving steadily to the far end of the room. Once there, he drew back the dark, heavy curtains, somber in their burgundy base and gray swirling design – gaudy gray flowers. Holmes considered himself to be somewhat of an art connoisseur so, with little restraint, he judged his dear friend's room to be offensively unattractive and impersonal.

Mrs. Hudson had overseen that their pleasingly spacious abode be furnished with tasteful draperies – if not subdued – and practical necessities like rugs, shelves, and basic furniture so that they would not be put out with the necessary time and expense of acquiring their own. Although Holmes thought very little of the landlady's fashion sense, he did feel inclined to put it a few notches above Watson's.

Why had Watson replaced the curtains, rug, and comforter? Everything in the room screamed of a drab funeral parlor.

Holmes unlatched the window that overlooked a tiny yard below. A square patch of grass surrounding a lone tree, bare and desolate in the chilly mid-autumn night, was all that made up the uninteresting spot. Leaning out the window to admire the charcoal sky, illuminated only by the sliver of moon that peeked through the soot-laden clouds, Holmes took a few deep breaths to steady his nerves. Then, leaving the window partially ajar to offer some ventilation to Watson's stuffy bedroom, Holmes pulled his dressing gown tighter around his body, retrieved the gas lamp from the bedside table, and padded barefoot down the stairs.

Now comfortably in his study, Holmes dropped into the chair behind his cluttered desk, placed the revolver down onto it and leaned forward with his elbows on the scratched wood surface, his fingertips tapping together impatiently. Absently, he noted that his lips were slightly swollen from Watson's impetuous kiss, and his lower back felt bruised from when he'd been manhandled onto the tabletop. Never before had his thoughts been so removed from his control.

But this was not an entirely convenient time to allow himself the luxury of indulging in the memory of having been enjoyably seduced by Watson.

Holmes pulled open the smallest desk drawer and withdrew a transparent liquid contained in an unlabeled bottle, setting a leather case beside it. Before he could open the case, a disturbing image of Watson shouting hurtful imprecations gave him pause. Watson had made him promise never to resort to using cocaine ever again, either to escape reality or attempt to heighten his already keen perception.

Sighing to himself, Holmes replaced the bottled drug, followed by the leather case, and chose to light his pipe instead. As he puffed quietly on it, the events of the day past began to unfold in his clever mind.

Holmes was absolutely positive that his capture had simply been a ruse to cover up something far more important. He'd been careless when he'd ventured out onto the wharf, alone, searching desperately for Watson, believing his best friend to be in some sort of grave danger. So distracted was he that the two men who had attacked him had found the ordeal to be less of a challenge than they'd expected. However, they could have killed him, but they hadn't. If they had desired such an outcome, they would have only needed to abandon him, or execute him with a bullet to the head. Little evidence would have remained by the time anyone found him. So why lure Watson to the wharf? Why allow Watson to complete the rescue and return home, virtually unscathed?

Holmes narrowed his eyes, lost in a sort of trance as his lips curled more possessively around the pipe, forgetting that it was even there.

And then there was Mary? What part did she play in all of this? Surely it could not be a mere coincidence that she'd been attacked after being stood up by Watson.

What had she said again?

"_Two men appeared from behind a building and caught me unawares. They took everything that I had. Robbed me of even the change that I had in my purse. They took _everything_, John."_

Two men had targeted her and stolen all of her belongings. They had to have been the same two men that had targeted him earlier that day.

Holmes rubbed the sore marks that circled his left wrist and suddenly sat up straight, his back and shoulders rigid and tense. Before he'd been tied up, one of the men had rifled through his pockets, emptying them of their contents, unfastened and removed his watch, and then ripped open the front of his shirt to see if he was wearing a necklace or had concealed any other trinkets. They had indeed taken everything, even the change in his pockets. But the money had been a blind. It was not money that they were after.

Whatever they were searching for, the common denominator in this most sensational case was none other than Watson himself.

_Watson…John…_ Holmes found his attention dreamily wandering off in the direction of a tall, strong, handsome man with an unbelievably attractive mustache. He tugged the colorful pendant out of his shirt to scrutinize it more closely, his sensitive fingertips stroking over the various angles of its surface. It was warm for it had lain against his chest, tucked away under multiple layers of shirts and the dressing gown. But for its size, it was unusually light. Where had this curious stone come from? It was unlike any other that Holmes had ever studied, and he had put many a shiny stone under his magnifying glass for inspection. At one particularly jagged edge, he hesitated before running his nail over it. "Hullo… what have we here?" Perhaps…

A faint rustling startled Holmes out of his meditative state, his inferences slipping away before they'd been able to solidify.

"Blast it!" Holmes pushed back his chair when soft, light scuffling proceeded down the hall. "Gladstone, how many times have you been told _not_ to interrupt me while I am at work?" Placing his pipe carefully on the edge of the desk, he hurried out of the room, fully prepared to chase the bull-pup for its life. "You are supposed to be confined to the sitting room whenever Watson is not --." Holmes froze when he came out into the hallway to find neither head nor tail of the lazy mutt. That dog moped around at a snail's pace, snuffling around the floorboards and rubbing against the walls in an attempt to dislodge fleas. Gladstone lacked the energy or imagination to go bounding down a flight of stairs, even if it would have been to escape Holmes' wrath. The bull-pup wasn't the lightest pooch in the world either. Any increase in speed would definitely be matched by an increase in noise.

"Gladstone?" Holmes hissed, barely above a whisper, as he crept further down the chilly hallway. He wasn't by nature a superstitious man but the shadowy walls and roaming draft that slithered around his ankles did his nerves no favors.

Perhaps too late, Holmes realized that the warm puff of air on the back of his neck was not the result of any draft. Reacting instinctively, he slammed his elbow backwards; both alarmed and satisfied when it impacted with something soft and bulky – a man's stomach, no doubt. Any satisfaction that he might've gotten out of the short grunt from behind him was immediately nullified when a large hand clamped over his shoulder, spun him around, and shoved him backwards. He stumbled, lost his footing on the floorboards, his balance soon following as he crashed to the floor, the ends of his dressing gown tangled around his legs.

Thankfully, Holmes' strengths were not limited to intelligence and seemingly supernatural powers of deduction. He was also young, spry, and remarkably flexible for a man that performed most of his legwork from a sprawled position on the settee. Untwisting the ends of his gown and springing to his feet in a movement that appeared both graceful and effortless, Holmes quickly retreated into his study to put some distance between himself and the grumbling man that came after him.

"That has got to be the oddest utilization of women's hosiery," Holmes commented, taking a moment to visually inspect his attacker. _One hundred and seventy-nine centimeters tall. Face covered by a section of women's hosiery - black. Strong jaw, small, deep-set eyes – green, I believe. Heavyset with a fondness for the more potent spirits. Smells of whiskey and onions…_ Holmes backed off a step more as the veiled man approached, repelled by the overpowering sour smell of his polluted breath. _Waist size approximately ninety-eight centimeters, overall weight two hundred-and-forty pounds… give or take an ounce. _

"We don't `afta do this," the man drawled, flexing his beefy arms for Holmes to see. "Ye tell me where it is and I won't be forced t` snap ye in two."

"If you would kindly tell me what it is that you are so desperately searching for, perhaps I may be of some assistance." So that was why they hadn't killed him! They must believe that either he knows the whereabouts of whatever they are after, or Watson could be strong-armed into obediently handing it over in exchange for the safety of his friend.

From Watson's room upstairs, a loud crash sounded, followed by the very unmistakable bang of a bed being overturned.

"Looks like he's gone ahead without me." The man closed in on Holmes, grinning maliciously as if he were eyeing a treed tomcat that he intended to beat once he shook it loose. "I'm gonna let him search and bide my time with yer pretty face."

"I'd prefer it if you didn't." Not wishing to give his attacker any unfair advantages, Holmes chose to be the first to move. He swung his fist at the man's face, making contact with a crooked nose that had obviously been broken before. Well, at least it wasn't like he was inflicting any damage that hadn't already previously existed. Before the man could retaliate, Holmes brought the heel of his bare foot down on the man's stocking-clad toes, successfully crushing two of them.

"ARGH!" The man howled out in pain, hopping on one foot as he lifted his other to nurse it with both hands. That left him wide open, straight down the middle.

Knowing that he could not possibly fight a man of that size and win under fairer circumstances, Holmes readily leapt at the opportunity to render his attacker powerless. He aimed a straight punch at the man's sternum, channeling all of his remaining strength into it.

When the man released his injured foot, lightning quick, and caught Holmes' fist in mid-punch, there was no question that the game was over.

Holmes found himself being dragged closer by his trapped arm, unable to pry it loose, and then thrown sideways into the shelves that lined the walls of his study. He gave a sharp cry as the edge of one of the lower shelves bruised two of his ribs, and then covered his face with his arms and ducked when several glass bottles dropped onto him from a higher shelf.

"Ye think yer gonna get away with that?"

Those meaty, calloused hands were on him again, lifting him up by his upper arms and then slamming him into the shelves. Holmes gasped in pain when his lower back was ground with agonizing force into one of the shelves. "AHHH!!" An incredible wave of searing pain shot up Holmes' spine and down into his legs, causing him to fear irreparable damage. "S—stop…," Holmes pleaded breathlessly, clenching his teeth as the pain became unbearable. His spine felt as if it would snap backwards, such was the force that he was being abused with. "N—no…more…"

"Watson is a doctor so you needn't worry." The man chuckled, dropping Holmes to the floor. "Whatever I break, he can fix."

Holmes lay there, one hand gingerly testing his lower back for any damage as he attempted to master the pain.

From the doorway, another voice startled Holmes into alertness.

"It wasn't in either bedroom. I checked the sitting room too."

That voice sounded so familiar!

"I tried to ask Mr. Detective here, but he ain't been too cooperative." The heavyset man complained.

"Hold him down." This second voice was cold and uncompassionate, and when Holmes lifted his head to get a look at him, he was struck so hard that he briefly lost consciousness.

"-- `t let … move…"

"… murder… Watson… soon… here."

Holmes moaned and sank back onto the floor, pressing his face against the floorboards to reassure himself that he was actually on the ground and not floating dizzily from the ceiling. His head hurt, he couldn't open his eyes, and his hearing phased in and out of existence.

"…this? … dead… minutes."

"Good."

And then, everything faded out into a grey listlessness.

**

Halfway across town, Watson requested that the cab driver hold on for a few minutes so that he could walk Mary up to her parents' front door. He had barely been able to catch up with her before she'd gotten into the cab and urged it onwards after slamming the door of his shared rooms with Holmes. When he'd stepped in front of it, spooking the poor horse out of its wits and giving the driver a bit of a scare too, Mary had just about set onto him like a vulture. But he'd insisted on seeing her home and she had eventually relented, on one condition. That condition was that he sit there silently and endure her abusive tirade for the duration of their trip.

Watson hadn't the heart to look at Mary the entire way, and he had no desire to do so while she was practically fuming with hatred, directing most of it at Holmes. While he did feel particularly defensive over the jabs she kept poking at the expense of his best friend's character and personality, he held his tongue to avoid making the situation worse.

"I am so very cross with you, John. You have no idea," Mary repeated for the hundredth time as she stormed across the lawn and up the front steps.

"Oh, believe me, I am quite aware of how cross you are. You've made that perfectly clear," Watson replied stonily.

"I don't know what it is that you see in that antisocial man," she continued as she rapped her knuckles firmly on the front door before Watson could do it for her. "He so obviously requires the services of a doctor, but not one of your kind. No, what Mr. Holmes needs is to be institutionalized."

That was most effectively the last straw.

"Now listen here, woman, you may insult me all you like for casting you to the wolves tonight – as you put it – but I will not tolerate you bad-mouthing Holmes a second longer. He is a good, kind man, and he has wished no harm upon you. I demand that you treat him in a courteous, respectful manner." Watson finally glared down at Mary to find that she was still challenging him with her eyes flashing rebelliously.

"Respectful? Hah! I shall do no such thing."

Their bickering might have continued if it had not been for the timely clicking sound of the front lock being opened. And then Mary's father, not the usual servant, flung the door wide open and his wife, Mrs. Morstan, dashed out to envelope Mary in her arms.

"Oh, thank heavens, dear! We thought that something awful had happened to you."

"Mother, what is it? What's wrong?"

"Why don't you ask _that_ man beside you!" Mr. Morstan came within an inch of striking Watson before thinking better of it at the last second. He stood there, heaving with anger as he regarded the doctor with wary eyes. "We were robbed tonight! The whole place ransacked! All of it on account of Dr. John Watson here!"

"That's absurd," Watson sputtered, gripping his walking stick murderously in his right hand. "What kind of nonsense are you accusing me of!?!"

"Two of your comrades were here tonight, tearing our house apart. They said that you must've given it to us. That if you hadn't given it to our dear Mary or your infuriating dolt of a partner, then you must've entrusted it in our care."

"To what are you referring?" Watson demanded to know, feeling as if he were in way over his head. "What were these two men looking for?"

"We don't know," Mrs. Morstan sobbed, staring helplessly at Watson with her red, tear-stained eyes. "But, it must've been jewelry or something small because they searched every nook and cranny."

Jewelry or something small…? "Holmes," Watson gasped, turning his back on the Morstan family and rushing back to the cab.

"Where are you going!?!" Mary nearly screamed. "What if they return?"

"Contact the police," Watson shouted back at her from over his shoulder, knowing fully well that he'd permanently burned the bridge between Mary and himself that night. He reached the cab, swung up into it and hailed the driver to swiftly return to 221B Baker Street.

They raced back in half the time that it had taken to reach Mary's house. Watson carelessly dropped a handful of coins into the cab driver's palm before he bounded up the stairs, two at a time, jangled his key in the lock and pushed in the door.

It was dark inside, and quiet. There weren't any candles lit in the sitting room where Holmes would usually be waiting for him to return from a night of gambling. Had he fallen asleep?

"Sherlock?" Watson peered into the sitting room to find the lumpy shape of Gladstone lounging on the bearskin rug, breathing shallowly but otherwise unharmed. "Wake up, old boy," he whispered, trying to shake the dog back to its senses. But Gladstone would not respond. "Gladstone, has Sherlock been experimenting on you again?" He exhaled in frustration, thinking that his pet had simply ingested something to keep it docile when he felt the tiny dart protruding from the dog's thick neck. "Damn, I'm too late," he hissed under his breath. "I'll tend to you later, old friend." Now, completely vigilant, Watson left Gladstone to ascend the staircase, drawing his sword quietly along the way.

He'd not even finished climbing the stairs when a voice called out to him from Holmes' study.

"Easy there, Doctor," a gruff, masculine voice said in a neutral tone. "Whatever it is that you think you're going to attack us with, you'd best put it down lest we damage your friend further."

Watson stormed down the hall and into the study, heedless of any danger to himself, and came to a dead halt at the scene inside. It looked as if a tornado had swept through the room. Drawers were hanging open at odd angles, broken glass littered the floor, various ornaments and specimens had been overturned on the shelves and desk. Even the floorboards had been pulled up in places where there might have been a big enough gap to hide something. And, in the middle of the floor, lying immobile at the feet of a large man who sat cross-legged by his head, was Holmes.

"Sherlock!" Watson forgot himself and surged forward, sword held aloft in his right hand, only to stop dead when Holmes' limp arm was lifted from the ground, and a deadly syringe appeared to hover millimeters from an exposed vein. The heavyset man leered at Watson, beckoning him closer with his taunting smirk.

That syringe was no stranger to Watson. He had convincingly bullied Holmes into throwing it away months ago. Why hadn't Holmes actually discarded that piece of filth? His gaze flickered to the desk where another man was standing calmly, noted the completely empty bottle, and then returned his attention to the syringe, which was full. "What in God's name is in that?" Watson couldn't hide the tremor in his voice, mustering up all of his willpower to keep his feet grounded.

"Why, I'm sure that you must be aware of Mr. Holmes' drug habit," the man at the desk feigned surprise at Watson's question. "As to what it is exactly, I believe it to be cocaine. While I'm sure that Mr. Holmes is a seasoned addict, I doubt that he will be able to survive such a potent dosage."

"He was never an addict and he's been clean for months!" Watson shouted, starting forward again. "Get that away from him this instant!"

"Come any closer and I will empty it into him," the heavyset man threatened, pricking Holmes' arm carelessly as he pretended to fight to keep his hand steady.

"If Mr. Holmes had given us what we wanted in the first place, he never would have been treated so… inconsiderately." The man at the desk claimed, leaning back against the desk to admire Watson's enraged face. "My, my, aren't you a fiercely overprotective friend."

"He had no idea what it was that you were after, and neither did I until I spoke with the Morstan's."

"Oh, so you know what it is that we want then?"

"Yes," Watson seethed through his gritted teeth. "I can only imagine that you want that rock that I won a few nights ago. It is the only thing of value that you could possibly be after."

"Hmm… it would seem that Mr. Holmes does not give you enough credit, my friend. You figured that out, all on your own. Bravo!"

"Don't patronize me. I'm certain that you don't want to have the police involved in this matter so killing either of us will only inconvenience you." Watson had survived the war in Afghanistan and encountered many a deranged individual. Although bereft of Holmes' genius mind and scheming plans, Watson figured that he could still manage to deal with these men, on his terms. "I will give you what it is that you seek, and afterwards, you will leave and never bother us again."

"That would be highly unlikely. As soon as Mr. Holmes regains consciousness, he will most certainly report us to the police."

"He will not. We do not operate that closely with the police, and there have been times where we have skirted around framework of the law. I will ensure his cooperation. Now see here, I am only interested in the safety of my friend. I give you my word as a gentleman that this ends here."

For a few precious moments, the man in charge cast his piercing dark eyes at Watson, watching for any telltale signs that would warn him of a double-cross.

"Okay, put down your weapon and bring me the rock. I give you my word that Mr. Holmes will come to no further harm after you have handed it over."

Watson took two unsteady strides up to Holmes, lowered his sword to the floor, and, ignoring the warning that the heavyset man shouted at him, crouched down to examine his friend. He pressed two fingers to Holmes' neck, counted and observed, and then picked up Holmes' arm to check the pulse from his wrist.

"He's not dead," the man shot out angrily as he edged away from the desk. "Do not waste my time with this! Get me that rock!"

The sound of a safety being released on a pistol caused Watson's fingers to slip and fumble nervously as he undid the clasp that held the pendant to the thin rope around Holmes' neck. "I am getting you your bloody rock. Calm down and lower your weapon." When Watson thrust his palm out, the rock plainly centered on it, he witnessed a very strange change come over the man's concealed features. The mesh hosiery stretched a little around his mouth and eyes as he regarded Watson with something akin to disgust.

"Why was he wearing it around his neck?"

The man's queer tone unnerved Watson and he fidgeted, trying not to appear overly concerned about Holmes' unresponsive form lying crumpled on the ground. "I lost my share of the rent money," he lied, flinching when the rock was snatched from his hand and the muzzle of the gun settled against his left ear.

"And so you gave your lodging companion this in order to compensate for that loss?"

"That is what I said." Watson forced himself to breathe evenly and not appear shaken by the insinuating tone on the other end of that pistol.

After a lengthy silence, the man withdrew and nodded for his accomplice to follow. "Remember our deal, Doctor. Come after us and the next time we run into Mr. Holmes, we'll drop him off at the mortuary."

Watson crouched there, listening to their footsteps retreat from the building before slowly pulling Holmes into his arms and holding him for dear life.

_To be continued…_


	6. Chapter 6

**Thank you to everyone who took the time to review! Reading reviews really makes me happy and inspires me to write more. Gladstone loves you for it too!**

**May 18, 2010 Note: There have been two tiny edits to this part due to anachronistic errors. Thanks to Original-Elfkin for taking the time to point out that the penlight had yet to be invented in the Sherlockian time period and for explaining that doctors weren't checking blood sugar levels back then. **

**Part 6**

Fragments of a distorted memory trickled through Holmes' mind as he struggled to regain consciousness. His head pounded dully while his stomach lurched as his body and mind fought to restore his equilibrium. The nausea passed gradually but the dizzying sensation of movement continued. Holmes chose to keep his eyes closed until the unpleasant sensations passed, concentrating on the sounds and smells of his mysterious environment.

From somewhere behind a thick plate of glass cawed a crow, its mighty wings flapping nearby as it settled on its perch. Further away, on the streets, a hansom followed a muddy trail, the hooves of a horse clomping, the riding crop of a man snapping. Little feet - insufficiently clad in ruined shoes and torn stockings - scuffed up and down the streets, hunting for spilled coins no doubt. They would find none on Baker Street. Not where the usual crowd of street urchins regularly swept the street clean of coins, lost buttons, and the occasional stolen loaf of bread. This lad would need to find his own turf if he wanted to busy himself in such practices.

Holmes' keen senses continued to sift through the barely audible noises filtering in from the streets, combining those with the odd smells lingering nearby. The faint suggestion of laudanum in the air overpowered the more appetizing aromas of fried eggs, heavily buttered toast, and freshly roasted coffee. More pungent still was the disturbing odor of something that had been wet and recently dried.

When the dizziness became too much, Holmes shut out the outside world and redirected his attention to the one inside. Concentrating on both simultaneously only served to multiply the ill feeling that unsettled his stomach and intensified the pain in his head.

The first thing he realized was that he was not in his own bed. This mattress was far softer than what he was used to, the springs further worn down by constant use. He rarely slept in his own bed so the mattress had yet to be properly broken in. Grasping the pillow from beneath his head, Holmes tested it for any sign of holes or tears. There were many, and the fabric was scrunched up, the feathers clumped together in a lumpy mess.

Watson's bed. And Watson's pillow.

Holmes wondered how he had wound up in Watson's bed, lying on the pillow that his friend frequently pounded on and used as a helmet to block out the noise from downstairs. Was it his violin playing or the pacing that bothered Watson the most? Holmes made a mental note to ask his dear friend sometime in the near future.

Speaking of Watson…

Holmes stiffened nervously when the heavy sound of snoring became evident from behind his back. Watson's hot breath wafted onto his neck and ear, and the faint press of something against his shoulder might have been Watson's hand. But, what was that? Holmes reacted instinctively, raising his sluggish arm to clap one hand over his mouth and noise.

The smell was putrid! Hadn't Watson been keeping up his strict regiment of proper oral hygiene? The man's breath was enough to kill! It was as if he had ingested a couple of pounds of rotting beef, followed by a barrel of cheap, stale beer. Add to that the smell of something damp and possibly moldy…

Turning over quite gingerly in favor of his injured back, Holmes opened his eyelids a fraction to observe Watson, and possibly stuff the pillow into the good doctor's open mouth. What he saw nearly caused him to launch himself off of the opposite side of the bed in fright. Two big, black eyes peered out at him, and a slobbery tongue came after his cheek, even as he pushed away from it in revulsion. This was definitely not Watson!

"Whoa! Take it easy, old boy." A gentle hand pressed into Holmes' hip from behind, holding him still, as Watson reached across the bed to push Gladstone back. "Bad boy!" He scolded the dog in a fairly soft tone, causing the bull-pup to sag back into the warm spot that he'd made, eyeing Holmes and licking his chops. "Sherlock, how are you feeling?"

"As good as can be expected, I suppose," Holmes sighed, his voice hoarse from disuse. "I must confess that I panicked, thinking that you reeked of such a dreadfully toxic odor."

"I beg your pardon?" Watson was on the verge of strangling Holmes when he took a whiff of the air and wrinkled up his nose in disdain. "Oh. I must apologize. I was so preoccupied with your injuries that he must've snuck past me sometime last night and finished the beer that I left open in the kitchen. And he has yet to completely dry from his encounter with Mrs. Hudson's laundry basket. He does smell awfully lethal."

"He is your dog," Holmes quipped.

Watson grinned, sitting on the edge of the bed to stroke his fingers through Holmes' hair. "So, when he smells bad, he's _my_ dog? And any other time it pleases you he becomes _our_ dog?"

"Quite right."

"I must admit that I find your reasoning to be rather selective and unreliable," Watson teased lightly.

"Watson, what happened last night?" Holmes asked suddenly, looking up at Watson with his dark, probing eyes. He seemed to have no patience for small talk or friendly banter.

Very quickly, a foreboding cloud passed over Watson's features, his blue eyes narrowing in distress. "We will discuss it when you are a little stronger," was all he said in reply. His palm stroked over Holmes' cheek, settling there as he bent down to kiss his friend gently on the lips. Making the kiss brief, he straightened up again to retrieve the tools of his trade – a stethoscope, a small gas lamp – secured tightly to the sconce in the wall above the bed, and his professional manner. "I'm afraid that you've suffered a mild concussion," he informed Holmes in a less than clinical tone. "Although this may sound patronizing, I'm going to have to ask you to tell me your full name and occupation."

"Why, that is too simple a task to even bother myself with."

"Sherlock," Watson warned, beginning to feel irritated.

"Very well. My name is Sherlock Holmes and I am the _only_ consulting detective who is called upon to solve all of the singular cases that bewilders the likes of Scotland Yard. I live at 221B Baker Street, along with my associate and friend Doctor John H. Watson, and our lazy canine Gladstone. Have I left anything out, Watson?"

"Would it be so disturbing to make use of my given name?" Watson muttered, calmly ignoring Holmes' unnecessary babbling. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

Holmes treated Watson with an all-suffering sigh, humoring him by counting off three fingers and then raising a suspicious eyebrow in Gladstone's direction. Their dog had shifted closer to him, so close in fact that Holmes was finding it very difficult to concentrate when bombarded with the slobbering noises and lazy panting.

Feeling peevish when Holmes made no attempt to acknowledge his simple request, Watson had trouble keeping his touch gentle and calming when his temper began to boil. He yanked the buttons open from Holmes' shirt more forcefully than he'd intended and unkindly pressed the cold stethoscope against the detective's skin without warning. Predictably, Holmes' gasped and flinched but was held down by Watson who showed no interest in anything other than monitoring his patient's heartbeat.

"Watson… show some compassion."

"Don't I always?" Watson moved the stethoscope over a bit and feigned a deep concentration.

"You only use that device stone cold when you are feeling particularly spiteful towards me." Holmes averted his gaze when Watson paused to look at him. It wasn't clear what sort of emotions were churning around inside of the detective, but if one were to judge by his expression then it would be safe to assume that none of them were positive. "What have I done to upset you this time?"

Unable to deny the pain and rejection in Holmes' voice, Watson took hold of his friend's hand and clasped it in both of his. "How would you expect me to react after all that has happened? After how close I came to losing you last night?" Exasperation and genuine fear mingled together to make Watson's confession quite unnerving. "I've been sitting here helplessly for the past few hours, worrying over your mental and physical state, all the while cursing you for your idiosyncrasies. Sherlock…" Watson began but made a visible effort to stamp out the internal fire before it engulfed their newly formed relationship in flames. "I can't do this now… You are injured. We will not have this conversation now."

"On the contrary, I must insist that we do."

"You are in no position to insist anything."

"Watson…"

"John," Watson corrected with just a hint of annoyance.

"My dear _John_," Holmes began again, "while I may be sorely discomfited by what I assume to be a row of stitches in my lower back, and my mind may be fuzzy from either the concussion or the laudanum, you may rest assured that I am still mentally and physically strong enough to endure whatever it is you do not wish to burden me with."

"I am the doctor here. _Your_ doctor, I might add. And based on my medical expertise, I consider your fragile state to be incapable of having this discussion right now." Lifting up Holmes' stiff right arm, Watson made a show of checking his pulse, occasionally trading a knowing look with Gladstone.

"So, now you're conspiring with our dog?" How an esteemed doctor such as Watson was managing to communicate with the small, portly beast really was beyond Holmes. Whether or not this was to be seen as an accomplishment, Holmes would not waste his precious time judging either way. He couldn't help but feel slightly offended by the conspiratorial antics of the dog and his best friend. Watson must have been training the dog in his spare time to act as some sort of spy. Gladstone was never usually so solicitous in his demands for attention. And now the mutt lay in the bed beside Holmes like a joke of a guard dog.

"At least he understands my concerns."

"Enough stalling, old chap."

There were times when Holmes really got inside of Watson's skull and today was one of those times. If he didn't get some fresh air, he'd end up having an emotional collapse as a result of his injured patient's bullying.

"Alright! Enough already!" Watson got up from the bed and retrieved the breakfast tray, helping Holmes into a sitting position before positioning the tray over the detective's lap. "We will have that abhorred conversation after you have eaten your breakfast and regained some of your color and strength."

Watson was halfway out the door, leaving Holmes to pick suspiciously at his meal, and nearly escaped in time… nearly.

"John, there is something disturbingly peculiar about this piece of soggy toast." Holmes held it up gingerly between two fingers and waved it accusingly in Watson's direction.

"Well, considering the state of our rooms after the ransacking, I must say that I felt it necessary to withhold access to Mrs. Hudson until after I'd put everything back in order. And while I may not have the touch of a woman in the kitchen, I tend to think that my breakfast preparations were not too shabby." Watson practically beamed as he appraised his breakfast assortment on the way out. "I'll be in the sitting room. If you need me, feel free to shout." And then he was gone.

As soon as Watson was out of sight, Holmes visibly deflated against the propped up pillows, allowing his face to finally show signs of fatigue and pain. He regarded the butter-laden toast and fried eggs, sunny side up but fringed with a burnt frame, with the interest of a scientist having discovered a new specimen. "Gladstone," he beckoned softly, smiling when the dog shuffled over to curl up beside him. He lowered his hand to Gladstone's head and began to pat him in a familiar pattern. He listened carefully for any indication of Watson returning and catching him in this very uncharacteristic position with the dog. It was in his best interests if Watson never found out just how cozy Gladstone and Holmes' relationship really was.

Gladstone rumbled off something in doggy language, his eyes on the breakfast tray.

"Fear not, Gladstone, you shall prove your worth yet again by sampling my dear John's lethal attempt at cooking." Rubbing his hands together in anticipation, Holmes broke off a piece of the toast and fed it to Gladstone, waiting for the dog to cough back up the morsel. When he didn't, Holmes muttered absently to himself about the toast appearing to be safe for digestion before holding out a sliver of the egg on his palm for Gladstone to lap up. Still nothing.

Knowing fully well that giving a dog coffee was an idiotic thing to do, Holmes sniffed at it himself before tentatively bringing the fine cup and saucer to his lips. It was bitter, obviously over-brewed, and tasted watered down, but was better than nothing so Holmes finished it off thirstily before attacking the unappetizing, soggy toast, and overly salted egg. Thankfully, aside from the occasional floating seed, the freshly squeezed orange juice barely met Holmes' standards.

Moving onto dessert, Holmes was pleased to notice that Watson was taking his love for sugarcoated concoctions into account. One of the smaller plates was littered with cookies, odds and ends that Watson had stolen from Mrs. Hudson's pantry, again.

Feeling a bit better now that he'd been properly fed, Holmes breathed a sigh of relief and was just leaning back, cookie in hand, Gladstone draped over his lap, licking at that cookie, when a gasp of surprise ruined their little picnic.

"Sherlock, what in heaven's name are you feeding our dog?"

_To be continued…_

**I know that this part was kind of fluffy but I just felt that I needed a bit of a break before diving back into the angst and plot in part 7. **


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